2018 Short Story Speed Writing: Distant Voices
by dust on the wind
Summary: There are stories waiting to be told...
1. Voices

_I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story._

* * *

"Blimey, the hours we spent down there!" Leaning on his cane for balance, the old man stood on the edge of the excavated basement, and peered at the crumbling stonework with a proprietary air.

"Newkirk, is that nostalgia I can hear in your voice?" asked his companion. He was much the same age as the Englishman, although the years had treated him kindly. His hair had frosted to white, but the eyes below were clear, and he carried himself with a grace and vigour which a man half his age might well envy.

"Nostalgia? For the cooler? Do me a favour!... Mind you, those were the days, eh, Kinch?" He chuckled. "I only wish Carter could have made the trip over. He wanted to, you know. Colonel Hogan, too, only he couldn't organise it in time. Rotten shame, it is."

Herbert Dinkelsbühl took yet another surreptitious glance at his watch. "If you please, kind sirs," he said, his voice a little higher-pitched than usual, "can you identify where...?"

"Newkirk! Kinch! _Venez_ _ici_! Look what I found!"

The shout came from the third of the visiting ex-servicemen, a diminutive, energetic Frenchman who had just emerged from the thicket of young trees which stood more or less in the centre of what, some thirty-five years ago, had been the toughest prisoner of war camp in the whole of the Third Reich; now destined for a new life as suburban housing for the expanding population of Hammelburg. At least, as long as certain problems could be overcome.

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "He hasn't changed. Way too excitable, that's his trouble. Always was. We'd better see what the fuss is about."

He set off across the uneven ground, his apparent offhandedness belied by his quick, eager pace, while Kinchloe gave Herbert a grin. "That cane is mostly for show. His knee's not as bad as he makes out. For his age, he's still pretty fit." He chuckled, and followed his old buddy.

 _I will surely lose my job over this_ , thought Herbert as he set off in pursuit, his chubby little legs needing three steps to match each of one of Kinchloe's.

Everything had seemed so simple at first. The place had been abandoned for so long that hardly anyone remembered or cared about the history of the scrubby bit of forest on the outskirts of town, and nobody had raised any objections when the development plans for the new housing subdivision had been made public. The proposal had been approved without any delay, and everything had gone according to schedule, right up until the point where the site was to be cleared. The work crews had arrived; the earth-moving equipment had been deployed; and exactly eighteen minutes later, a front end loader had disappeared into a previously unsuspected and surprisingly deep hole in the ground.

A frantic investigation had quickly uncovered the reason this parcel of land had not been built on before. Beneath the former prison camp lay a maze of tunnels, criss-crossing and intersecting and bypassing each other until it seemed there was more open space down there than in the woods above. It soon became clear that unless the layout of this subterranean labyrinth could be resolved, and the many voids filled in, any further work was liable to be complicated.

Given the cost already incurred, time was of the essence; and even though Herbert was a very junior clerk in the planning office, the problem had been dumped on his desk, with strict instruction to resolve it quickly and with the minimum additional expense.

 _It would have been so much easier to just build somewhere else,_ he thought now, as he chased after his three old men.

He'd done his best to sort the matter out. His early enquiries within the local area had come to nothing. Either no-one knew what had really been going on beneath Stalag 13, or more probably, no-one wanted to talk about the war. It had all happened a long time ago, and it was nobody's business. No point in digging up the past. And they would look at him, noting how young he was, and how he still spoke with a slight Swiss accent; what would he know about how things were in Germany, all those years past?

By sheer persistence, he'd finally tracked down a former Underground member, a retired veterinarian, well into his nineties but still possessed of a remarkably good memory. Oskar Schnitzer had put him on the trail of some of the former prisoners. "Of course they will help you," he said. "Why wouldn't they? The war was long ago, we're all friends now."

But it was not working out the way Herbert had hoped. These three old soldiers – American, French and British – had been happy to come back to Stalag 13 and help to map the tunnels. They'd even agreed to come out here today, the day before the surveyors were due to attend, and spend a few extra hours reacquainting themselves with their old home. But once they were back on the old familiar ground, they had got so intoxicated by the heady brew of reminiscence that they seemed to have completely forgotten the purpose for which they had come back to Stalag 13.

Herbert couldn't blame them. There was an atmosphere about this place, a feeling of history and adventure and comradeship which seemed ingrained in the very soil beneath their feet. He would have loved to hear more, but he had a job to do, and not much time to do it in.

A little out of breath, he caught up with Kinchloe. "Excuse me, sir..."

"Just call me Kinch."

" _Ja…_ " No, that wasn't going to happen. "So, can you tell me whether you will be able to..."

"Look at this, Kinch!" LeBeau came to meet them, holding had in his hands a battered, misshapen object which he handled with the delicate touch normally accorded to a rare and valuable artefact.

"Is that…?"

"It's never..."

"It is!"

"It's a coffee pot," said Herbert. "Just an old, broken…" He broke off in embarrassment.

Newkirk cocked an eye at him. "Not just any coffee pot, chum. You wouldn't believe how many hours we spent in Colonel Hogan's office, gathered around this coffee pot. As a matter of fact, I can't think of any mission that wasn't fuelled by what came out of it."

"It must have been very good coffee," said Herbert. and then blushed at the laughter which greeted his innocent remark.

LeBeau was polishing the side of the pot with his sleeve. "I wonder how it got left behind."

"Well, things got pretty busy, right at the end," said Kinchloe. "I guess nobody thought about it, with everything that was going on those last couple of days. Where'd you find it, Louis?"

"Behind the trees over there," replied LeBeau. "It was almost buried, but I saw it glinting in the sunlight, so I dug it out."

"Okay, so that must be close to our old barracks." Kinchloe looked back towards the cooler. "That's about the right distance, I reckon. You want to take a look, Newkirk?"

"Why not? For auld lang syne, and all that."

Once again, Herbert found himself forced to scurry behind them, and he was breathless by the time he caught up. " _Bitte, meine Herren..._ if...if you don't mind, it is getting late, and we still have not talked about the location of the tunnels."

"We're getting to it," replied LeBeau. "In fact, we must be practically there. What do you think, Kinch?"

Kinch gazed thoughtfully at the ground in front of Herbert."I think if our friend had kept going forward another two feet..."

"...then he'd have found himself six feet under," Newkirk concluded.

He prodded the spot in question with the end of his cane, and smirked as the topsoil collapsed into the depths below. "More like twenty feet," he added cheerfully.

"I...I...I think I need to sit down," said Herbert faintly.

Newkirk gave him a hearty slap on the back. "No time for that, chum. We've got a tunnel to find. Can't hang about all day."

"We're on the right track, for sure," said Kinchloe. "Seems to me that's got to be the main tunnel under the barracks. If it is, then we'll be able to figure the rest out without too much trouble."

Herbert boggled at him. "You can work it out, just from this one hole in the ground?"

"Easy enough. All of the tunnels, sooner or later, lead back here. Think of it like – let's say a rail network. If all the tunnels are train lines," said Kinch, "then right here is..."

"Kings Cross Station."

" _La gare du Nord_."

"Well, I was going to say Chicago Union," Kinch went on, while his English and French comrades glared at each other, "but..."

"But since the Paris _Métro_ is the best known railway in the world..."

"Only if you ignore the London Underground, which is much older..."

"And much uglier. Have you never seen the beautiful Art Nouveau station entrances on the streets of...?"

"Oh, I've seen 'em, after the war. Very pretty. No good just being pretty, though. I nearly broke my neck pitching down the stairs. Now, the escalators at all the London stations..."

With the calm of a man who had heard it all before, Kinch regained control of the conversation. "Okay, let's stick with Union Station. The point is, you pin down the hub of the network, and then you know where to start looking for the branch lines." He gazed back in the direction of the cooler, narrowing his eyes slightly as if calculating. "We've got two reference points, but it'd be better if we could find a couple more landmarks, just to be sure. The dog kennel should be over that way, LeBeau. And Newkirk, go see if you can find any trace of the emergency tunnel exit. Herbert, you come with me. The Kommandant's office is this way. At least, it should be."

"That'd be right," grumbled Newkirk. "Send me off into the woods, with night coming on. Nothing much changes round here, does it?"

"Never knew you were scared of the dark," LeBeau sang out as he scurried off on his own errand.

Kinchloe laughed, and started walking. "It won't be dark for a couple of hours yet. I think you're safe enough, Newkirk."

 _ **An awful lot can happen in two hours**_

"Who said that?" Herbert looked around, startled. The voice had certainly come from behind him. Yet all three of his companions were in sight – Newkirk, still grumbling as he stumped off to the left; LeBeau, examining the ground some distance away on the right; and Kinchloe going straight ahead.

"I have been working too hard. Now I am imagining things," Herbert mumbled. But even as he hurried after Kinch, another faint comment, apparently coming from thin air, followed him:

 _ **Absolutely nothing to worry about...or is there?**_

"You look like you've seen a ghost," remarked Kinchloe, regarding him curiously. "What's up?"

"N-nothing," Herbert stammered. "Uh...that is...did you hear something, just now?"

"Can't say I did. At least, nothing unusual. Why?"

"I... no, never mind. At least... I thought I heard someone speaking, but I must have imagined it." He gave a nervous giggle. "My wife says I have too much imagination."

"Well, that's not always a bad thing. There were times when too much imagination was all we had to work with, back in the old days." Kinch walked a little further, his eyes searching among the weeds and rocks around him.

"A lot happened here," Herbert went on. "Do you not think that perhaps something – some kind of echo..."

He broke off abruptly. There it was again:

 _ **Forget it, the game is over.**_

Herbert shivered, and moved closer to Kinchloe. "Did – did you find anything?"

"No, nothing here – wait a minute." Kinch kicked at something on the ground, then stooped to pull away the grass. "Well, how'd you like that?"

"What is it?"

"It's pretty corroded, but I think it's the metal parts of a helmet – a _Pickelhaube,_ " said Kinch. "The Kommandant had one on his desk all through the war. I guess this is what's left of it."

"Why did he not take it with him when he left the camp?"

Kinch shrugged. "I don't think he had the chance. Like I said, things got a bit crazy right at the end."

 _ **How could you lose something you never had?**_

Deliberately, Herbert turned his back on the intruding voice. He would not listen. He just wouldn't.

"How'd you fellers make out?" asked Kinch, as LeBeau and Newkirk came to join them.

LeBeau spread out his hands as if in defeat. "Nothing left. I found a couple of old bones lying around, that's all. The kennels are long gone."

"Same for the emergency tunnel," added Newkirk. "Couldn't find the old tree stump at all. There was some bits of wood which might have been part of the ladder, but apart from that, not a sausage."

"Well, looks like we hit paydirt here, anyway. I'm pretty sure we've found where the office was. Just take a look at what Klink left behind. Don't try to pick it up, it might disintegrate."

They stood around the old helmet in silence for a few moments. Even the phantom voice didn't speak. Then LeBeau sighed. "I don't know why, but it makes me sad."

"Poor old Klink, eh?" added Newkirk. "Well, I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm about ready for a nice cup of tea, and maybe an early dinner. How about we leave it at that for today, and make a fresh start in the morning?"

Herbert was only too ready to go along with this, and led the way eagerly back to where he'd left the car. But even as they reached it, a faint, pursuing echo found its way to his reluctant ear:

 _ **Tick tock, tick tock.**_

* * *

Early the following morning, following an instinct he could not explain, Herbert drove out to the old camp again. He had not had slept well.

"You were very restless all night," his wife had remarked over the breakfast table. "Talking in your sleep, and saying the strangest things! Tell me, my dear, what does Hemolac mean, and what kind of a thing is a gonculator?"

"I don't know." He had drunk his coffee slowly, as he tried to make sense of things. "It's that place," he had said at last. "There is something there...something that wants to be heard...stories that need to be told...only I don't know what they are."

"Oh, Herbert. Always you let your imagination run away with you. When will you grow up?" But the gentle touch of her hand on his had taken the sting out of her words.

So he was out here again, this time on his own, listening for the distant voices which had tried to speak the day before. He stood for a long time in the middle of the old camp, eyes closed, hearing nothing but the soft murmur of the breeze amongst the leaves, and the constant chatter of birds.

"I'm listening," Herbert whispered at last. "What is it? What are you trying to tell me?"

He swayed on his feet, as from all sides, the voices of long ago spoke to him:

 _ **The first thing we've got to do is not let him know that we know… I want the other six, too… Life teaches only one thing – there are no answers… For the first time since I've been in command here, I want to know nothing… How did three men do all that without any help?… Just don't lend him your bicycle… As a matter of fact, I was in Berlin at that time myself… You boys sure picked a bad night… On the other hand, it could be the barmaid… I am not dead!**_

Then all went quiet.

Herbert drew a deep breath. He was beginning to understand. There were tales about this place which had not yet been told; tales which cried out to be told; tales which surely could be told by someone, somewhere.

The solution to the mystery was clear. He would find the storytellers, and he would ask them.

* * *

 _What does all this mean? It means it's time for The 2018 Short Story Speed Writing Challenge._

The rules:

1\. Between Saturday 9th June 2018 and Saturday 23rd June 2018, write as many short one-shot stories as you wish, based on the given prompts.

2\. The minimum word count is 1,000 words and the maximum word count is 5,000. Author's notes should be kept to a minimum – please save your word count for story content.

3\. This year's prompts are quotes taken directly from episodes of Hogan's Heroes. **Your story must include at least one of these quotes.**

The prompt lines are as follows:

 **An awful lot can happen in two hours.**

 **Absolutely nothing to worry about...or is there?**

 **Forget it, the game is over.**

 **Tick tock, tick tock.**

 **How could you lose something you never had?**

 **The first thing we've got to do is not let him know that we know.**

 **I want the other six, too.**

 **Life teaches only one thing – there are no answers.**

 **For the first time since I've been in command here, I want to know nothing.**

 **How did three men do all that without any help?**

 **Just don't lend him your bicycle.**

 **As a matter of fact, I was in Berlin at that time myself.**

 **You boys sure picked a bad night.**

 **On the other hand, it could be the barmaid.**

 **I am not dead!**

4\. Katbybee has provided a series of images taken from the show which you can use to further inspire you - **but you still have to include at least one of the written prompts.**

 **The link to the images can be found in the relevant thread at Forum XIIIC in the Hogan's Heroes forums on ffnet.**

5\. If you recognise the source of the quote or the picture, please don't base your story on that episode. It will be much more fun for both writers and readers if you make something entirely new out of it. (If you can fit it into a story based on a completely different episode, that's even more fun.)

6\. Any genre, style or format is welcome, provided it's not in breach of the terms of the site where you post it, and as long as it doesn't infringe on copyright law. Songfics are accepted, but only if no breach of copyright is involved.

7\. **All stories are to be posted, on your preferred site, on Saturday 23rd June 2018.** This means, as long as it's 23rd June somewhere in the world when you post, your story qualifies as part of the challenge.

 _Thanks to katbybee for the picture gallery, and to everyone who helped to compile the list of prompts._


	2. Old Friends

It was almost two weeks since Herbert had seen his new friends off on the night train to Paris; from where Newkirk had travelled to Calais and boarded the ferry to Dover. LeBeau and Kinch had planned to stay in Paris for a few days, reliving old adventures, before parting company and returning to their respective homes.

Herbert found it surprising, how much he missed their company. More than that, he felt as though he'd lost something; some kind of link to the lost history of the old prison camp. It still haunted him; long-gone voices spoke to him in his dreams, and his waking hours often seemed less real to him than the past about which he knew so little.

He had tried to explain about the distant voices to Kinch, who seemed the most approachable of the old prisoners; but his courage had failed him. It was all so vague and fantastical; why would anyone believe it?

So here it was, twelve days after the three old soldiers had left, and he had not made the slightest progress in his resolve to find out all about the history of Stalag 13. He arrived home from work at seven o'clock in a despondent humour.

"There is _Bratwurst_ for dinner," his wife said, "with potato salad. And a letter has come for you, from Paris. It is on the hall table."

This was unusual enough to pique his interest. He studied the envelope for a few seconds, his mood lightening; then opened it.

 _Dear Herbert,_

 _Just wanted to say thanks, on behalf of all three of us, for giving us a chance to spend some time running around on memory lane. We had a great time and I don't think any of us will ever forget it._

 _The boys thought you seemed pretty interested in the old days, so we got together and sent word round to anyone we could think of who might have stories to tell. You should start getting some interesting yarns in your mailbox any time soon._

 _I hope we can keep in touch. It was a real pleasure getting to know you, and since you're so hot on the old place, we'd like to consider you an honorary Stalag 13 POW._

 _Best wishes._

 _Kinch._

Herbert smiled. In fact, he had to suppress a giggle. Somehow, they had understood, and it wouldn't be long before some of the old tales would be told...

* * *

 **Just a reminder that the posting date for the Short Story Speed Writing Challenge is this coming Saturday, 23 June 2018.**


	3. Stories To Be Told

"So many letters!" Herbert's wife picked up one of the envelopes which were heaped up on the dining table, and examined the foreign stamp with interest. "Are they really all from former prisoners of war?"

"Not just from prisoners," said Herbert. "Some of the guards have written, too. See this one, from a gentleman in Heidelberg? He says he was a sergeant of the Luftwaffe, posted to Stalag 13 as a guard. I believe it to be true, because so many of the prisoners write about 'good old Schultz', or 'our pal Schultzie'. Almost every story mentions him."

"They liked him?" Marianne tilted her head to the side. She seemed to find it improbable.

"Well, they speak of him with affection." Herbert unfolded the letter. "He says he knew all along what was really going on, but kept quiet because he didn't want to cause any trouble for the prisoners."

"Or for himself."

The interjection probably touched on some level of truth, but Herbert ignored it. "Actually, he would very much like to come to Hammelburg and take me around to all the old places. He seems to remember them very well. It's strange, I had no idea there were so many taverns and bars in the town."

"Apart from the ones you visited with the Englishman," said Marianne, somewhat tartly. Herbert blushed, and hastened to divert her attention towards a small box lying next to the stack of envelopes.

"Cassette tapes," he said. "From one of the prisoners – Mr Andrew J. Carter, from Muncie, Indiana. I don't quite understand his stories, they seem to go on for a very long time, with a great deal of digression and many amusing but irrelevant details, and then suddenly he says, 'And then we blew up the train and went home,' and that's the end."

He picked up a letter which he hadn't yet opened. He knew he should have, but seeing the name on the envelope, and how very thin it was, he'd had an attack of nerves. Of all the men and the few women who had memories of Stalag 13, the one whose opinion mattered most of all was the one who had written this apparently short missive. What if he didn't approve of this digging up of the past?

"What do you mean to do with all of this?" asked Marianne abruptly, recalling Herbert from his thoughts. He stared at her blankly, not sure what to say. Even though she knew the place had a hold on him, he had never really told her about the voices he still heard whenever he visited the old camp. His practical, sensible Marianne would laugh at him for such foolish imaginings.

"I – I don't know," he faltered at last. Then, imagining a hint of disapproval in her eye, his chin went up in mild defiance. "I just think these stories – all of the history of the place – it shouldn't be forgotten."

"But what if people want to forget?" Marianne's eyebrows drew in. "You know how the locals were, when you asked them about it. There are bad memories, not just good ones. They don't want to remember."

"Maybe not. Maybe they'd rather pretend it didn't happen, or that it doesn't matter any more. But it's not for them." Suddenly, Herbert found the words he was looking for. "It's for the people they used to be, and the people who lived here, and fought and sometimes died for things that were important. Even if some of them were wrong to do what they did, it's still part of the history of the place. You can't ignore the past just because it's not always comfortable. And if nobody is interested now, some day their children will want to know, or their grandchildren."

He turned the letter over in his fingers. Somehow, even though he hadn't looked at it, he felt more confident knowing he had it. "There's a planning meeting on Monday morning," he said. "I think I should talk to them about conservation of the site, or having a proper archaeological dig and preserving whatever they find. There was a _Pickelhaube_ – did I tell you? Who knows what else they might find? Perhaps there should be some kind of memorial. I think I should tell them so."

"But, Herbert, you are afraid of speaking in public," said Marianne.

"I know. But someone has to do it," he replied.

* * *

Herbert spent the whole weekend crafting his presentation. He had material enough, from both sides of the conflict, to talk for hours, but he knew he'd have to keep it short to get a hearing, so he tried to choose the very best stories.

He woke early on Monday morning, and crept downstairs to go over his notes. The unopened letter caught his eye; he frowned as he looked at it. Then with sudden resolution, he opened it, and started to read.

 _Dear Herbert,_

 _I know, that's a little informal but I've been hearing all about you from the boys, and I feel like we know each other. Kinch says you're a swell guy, and his opinion's good enough to bank on. Any friend of his is someone I'd like to be pals with, too._

 _He told me you're interested in how things were at Stalag 13. I think that's great, and not just because we had some pretty wild adventures and there are great stories to tell. The thing is, history's important. Someone once said if you don't remember the past, you're bound to repeat it. Whoever he was, he got that right._

 _I guess you've already heard a lot of the old stories, and I'll be happy to add to your collection the next time I write. But I've been sitting here, thinking about the old days, and the memories that come to mind aren't about missions and escapades and shenanigans. What I remember are the in-between times, when we were just prisoners, trying to make the time pass – exercising in the yard, or playing poker around the table in the barracks on a cold evening. LeBeau would have something cooking on that ridiculous little iron stove, making the whole place smell like the best kind of Paris bistro. Carter's just playing for fun, complaining loudly every time he has to fold and snickering under his breath whenever he has a good hand. Everyone knows Newkirk's got a couple of aces up his sleeve, but he won't play them, unless Schultz joins the game. As for Kinch, he plays a steady, safe game and never takes risks, except when he does. On a good day he can even bluff Newkirk._

 _The other guys too, Baker, Olsen, Walters, Addison, Brodkin – I wouldn't say I miss the old days, but I sure miss the company._

 _You know, Herbert, I think you might just have started something. I'm looking forward to seeing how it ends up._

 _Best wishes,_

 _Robert E. Hogan._

Herbert folded the letter carefully and put it away. He wouldn't share it with the meeting, but he knew it would be in the heart of everything he said to them, and the thought would make the ordeal of speaking in public so much easier.

There was one more surprise waiting for him, before he left. Marianne had bought him a present: a new tie, vivid dark blue with a very narrow crimson stripe.

"I thought you should wear something a little more colourful today," she explained, as she knotted it for him, and smoothed his collar. "There! You look very handsome." She hesitated, then added abruptly, "My uncle was there, too."

"Your uncle…?"

"Uncle Wilhelm. You haven't met him," said Marianne. "He lives in a retirement home in Düsseldorf. I've always known that during the war he was the Kommandant of Stalag 13, but I wasn't sure I should say anything. It wasn't something he ever spoke of. So I called him, last week, and asked him if he would like to tell you about his time there, and he didn't exactly say yes, but he didn't say no either. I think we should visit him, quite soon. He might have stories for you, too."

Herbert gave her a hug, his heart overflowing with joy. _Another voice_ , he thought. _I wonder how many more there will be…_

* * *

 **And that's it for another year. Twenty-five stories were posted under the banner of this year's challenge, which is excellent. Many thanks to all the writers who contributed, as well as to the readers and reviewers who so kindly expressed their appreciation. And a special thank you to Abracadebra, katbybee, konarciq, Sgt. Moffitt, Thaddeus MacChuzzlewit, whirlyite, and snooky-9093 for their per-story donations to a range of worthwhile causes.**

 **See you all next year.**


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